Where by the Boldest Man
by Pandanima
Summary: He came to Skyrim from Cyrodiil, enchanted by boyhood stories of valiant warriors, hoping to learn about his father's homeland and perhaps become one of those warriors himself. When he catches a glimpse of the horrors a hero must face, he casts aside all dreams of glory to pursue a different path. Now, with something to protect, the hero's mantle is calling once more. Relentlessly.
1. Introduction

Author's Note: This story is based on one of my more developed Skyrim characters. Having already played the main quest lines, I decided to give my new character a very specific background to guide his decisions and define his motivations. While it's set in the canon universe (as accurate as I could be, anyway) I do add in details where none were provided. If limited information was available but unclear, I chose the best fitting interpretation for the story.

The title is from the poem _Courage_ by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, because I felt it was appropriate.

I have very definite plans for where the story is going to go, and for those questioning the romance category, give it time; it will certainly pick up as events unfold. I rated it M for future content; Skyrim touches on very dark themes, and I can't see the story continuing without addressing them.

I hope you enjoy it!

**Where by the Boldest Man**

Introduction

An explosion of fire burst through Helgen's hefty wooden gate, shattering it like a vase on cobblestones. Bjolmi barely had enough presence of mind to throw himself down behind a nearby stone wall, narrowly escaping the crimson plumes of the beast's fury. The heat of the flames was unbearable, unfurling before the creature's jagged maw and licking at the fleeing soldiers like a million scorching tongues; but Bjolmi barely noticed it. He was too preoccupied with the creature's bellowing voice. He more than heard it: he felt it. It berated him like an angry gale, and echoed between his ears until he thought his skull would burst. Clasping his palms to his head provided no relief, though he tried none the less. The sound was so wholly penetrating even a deaf man would have felt its power.

A sudden torrent of wind whipped about him as the dragon took flight once more, accompanied by the gut-twisting _crack_ of roof beams ripped free by the creature's gleaming ebony talons. Gathering his remaining courage, Bjolmi rose to a crouch and began an awkward, huddled run towards the barracks door, unwilling to sacrifice caution for the sake of speed.

He heard the screams of grown men behind him, men weathered in battle and bloodshed, crying out in terror like helpless babes. Part of him wanted to turn round, to take up the sword of a fallen guard and help the pitiful contingent of soldiers defend the keep. Fortunately for him, his legs remained practical in the face of such an idiotic temptation to heroism and kept on running.

The courtyard turned black as the dragon swooped low overhead. Startled by its proximity, Bjolmi caught his foot on a fallen beam and pitched face first into a pile of cinders. Pain blossomed down the left side of his face and he choked on a mouthful of ash. His hands flew to his face and felt beads of moisture welling there. His left eye burned and refused to open. When he took his hand away, he could see it was smeared with blood. His vision swam for a moment, limited as it was, and when it cleared he looked past his hand to the pile of cinders he had fallen into. His heart stopped cold when he realized it was the corpse of an Imperial soldier that had caught the full strength of the dragon's merciless breath. Crying aloud, Bjolmi scrambled away from it, coughing and spitting and fighting the urge to vomit. He pawed at his face, trying to wipe away the soldier's remnants, but the ash stuck fast in his blood and sweat. The world turned blurry behind his tears.

"You there! Get up!" The voice came from behind him, barely audible above the dragon's cries. "Quickly now, before it returns!" Bjolmi felt himself being lifted roughly off the ground. He did his best to push himself upright, but his legs felt weak and unsteady. He was spun round to see the face of one of his fellow prisoners, the flaxen-haired one he'd sat next to on the journey to Helgen. Ralof, they had called him.

"We must find cover," the man said, shaking Bjolmi by the shoulders. "This is no time for cowardice from a son of Skyrim. Muster your courage, man, and move!" Bjolmi obeyed, willing his legs to stumble after Ralof. His body felt drained of energy and yearned to collapse, but somehow he found the strength to keep moving. His heart pounded; his lungs ached. He stumbled again, but Ralof's hand shot out and grasped his collar, hauling him upright, and they resumed their flight.

The dragon circled above them, blasting jets of fire at the few structures in the fort that remained standing. It caught sight of Bjolmi and Ralof as they neared the barracks, and with a cry that chilled Bjolmi's bones veered straight for them. The door was nearly within reach when the sky darkened above them and the monstrous beast dropped out of the sky, landing heavily atop the barracks itself. The earth shuddered from the impact and loosed stones rained down from the parapet, stopping the two men in their tracks.

The wyrm was massive; the size of two or three mammoths put together. It leered down at them with keen red eyes, its horned head tilted menacingly atop a viper-like neck. Its fangs extended well below its lower jaw, and Bjolmi could have sworn that despite the length of its scaled snout, it wore something akin to a smirk.

Bjolmi knew what came next. The monster's jaws would open, spread wide to reveal the gaping abyss of its belly, and then it would descend upon them and swallow them whole. It was all too familiar.

"Go on then, creature!" Ralof shouted defiantly. "Do to us what you will, and be damned to Oblivion!"

The dragon smiled, baring numerous jagged teeth that were longer than Bjolmi's forearm. A rumbling sound began in its belly, shaking it from the inside out. This was new: it seemed to be laughing at them. When it had amply expressed its amusement, it leaned forward until its head hovered direclty before the two men, inspecting them with one massive red eye. Twining threads of smoke curled from its nostrils as they expanded and contracted with the rhythm of its breath. With its black wings retracted, folded flat against the sleek contours of its body, Bjolmi thought it truly resembled a worm. For some time all was still.

Then the dragon spoke.

Its voice was deep and powerful, pulsing with life—or perhaps death. It spoke only three words, but they contained more force and meaning than all the languages of Tamriel combined:

_Do-vah-kiin!_

The sound rumbled in Bjolmi's toes, up through his knees and belly, and shook his jaw. He reached instinctively for Ralof in order to steady himself, but his companion had disappeard. He was suddenly all alone.

Looking up, Bjolmi found the dragon smiling. Then it opened its obsidian jaws and swallowed, not just Bjolmi, but Helgen, and the whole world with it.


	2. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story is based on one of my more developed Skyrim characters. Having already played the main quest lines, I decided to give my new character a very specific background to guide his decisions and define his motivations. While it's set in the canon universe (as accurate as I could be, anyway) I do add in details where none were provided. If limited information was available but unclear, I chose the best fitting interpretation for the story.

My appreciation to those who have already read some, I appreciate you taking the time to do so. It's been a while since I wrote anything of any substance (if you call this substance) and I'm finding my metaphorical pen is a little dry. But it's getting a bit easier as I go, so hopefully the coming chapters will improve.

**Where by the Boldest Man**

_Heljarchen_

Bjolmi Alriksson awoke with a shout, thrusting his arms wide against the enveloping darkness from his dream. For a moment, his sleep-addled brain couldn't comprehend the simple loam-walled room in which he found himself, or the fur-covered cot upon which he lay. Sitting up, he saw that he'd thrown off his bedclothes in the night, such was the intensity of his dream, and they now lay in a disheveled heap on the floor. No wonder he felt so cold. He stretched his sore arms and back, the sudden exertion eliciting a monstrous yawn.

Then his eyes fell upon Lucia, sleeping soundly on her little wooden bed, and his lagging mind caught up with him. He was at home: his new home, built with his own hands on a small steading in the southern foothills of the Pale. It was a humble structure; a single room barely large enough for a fire pit, his cot, Lucia's little bed, and the chest containing their meager possessions. But it was solidly built and it kept out the cold, and he had ambitious plans for expansion. More than that, it was the culmination of three years of ceaseless toil, and it meant that Lucia would never again wander the streets of Whiterun begging for coin. It had been a month since he had completed construction and brought Lucia to live there. She had immediately christened it _heljarchen, _'their little world', and he promised himself that when it was a house worthy of a title, Heljarchen would be its name.

His mind wandered back to the dream. He was fully awake now, but the image of the black creature still hovered before his eyes, its words echoing silently in his head. Were his shoulders shaking because of the chill, or because his recurring nightmare had begun to evolve? Oh, he'd dreamed of that day before; quite often, in fact. Surviving the complete decimation of an armed stronghold by a creature thought to be long dead and gone was not something one easily forgot, even after all this time. He raised a hand to his face, running his fingers over the scars that his rust-colored beard could not hide. Three years, and they still hadn't begun to fade. He sighed softly and shook the dragon from his thoughts. He had no time to dwell on dreams. Not today.

His cot groaned as he sat up, and after tugging on his boots and pulling a thick fur over his bare shoulders, Bjolmi stood and walked stiffly to the door. He'd drunk too much last night and his bladder was begging for relief.

"Where are you going?"

He turned to see Lucia peering at him from beneath her pile of blankets and furs. She pushed a lock of brown, sleep-tousled hair out of her bleary eyes and let out a yawn.

"To get water," he grunted. Glad as he was that she was here, he still had no idea how to act around her. He certainly wasn't comfortable telling the child he needed to take a piss.

Hefting the cast iron cooking pot, he pulled the door open and stepped out into the crisp Skyrim morning.

If the house itself was less than impressive, the view from Heljarchen more than made up for it. Standing on his doorstep, Bjolmi was presented with the vast expanse of Whiterun Hold, including nearby Dragonsreach and the distant, towering peak known as the Throat of the World. The sun was just visible over the jagged horizon to the east, flooding the open plains with honey-colored light and transforming each river, creek and tributary into winding veins of gold. During his childhood in Cyrodiil, Bjolmi had experienced many a beautiful sunrise. But since he had come to Skyrim he found that each morning surpassed the last in richness and splendor. The land itself was riddled with dangers, dark magics, and dishonorable men; but whatever the horrors of the previous day, the sun always rose with undaunted brilliance, offering the world another chance to become just little bit better.

A pair of elk wandered out of the small cops to the west of the house, a stone's throw from where he stood. A dark, five-pointed bull and his slender mate, Bjolmi recalled having spotted them in the area before, back when he was still clearing the stead. They were magnificent creatures and only two of many he'd spotted. He anticipated many successful hunts in his future. The pair meandered aimlessly for a bit, rooting through the spiky brown grass for tasty morsels and tender leaves. After the doe wandered too far, the bull raised his head and split the morning's stillness with a piercing wail, followed by a series of low pants, and then followed after her. Bjolmi watched them until a distant noise made them freeze, then bolt in tandem towards the valley below. He silently wished them good fortune and swift feet if they should ever cross paths again.

He let the frost-tinged air fill his lungs and then sighed in contentment. The past three years had held many surprises for him, and not a day had passed that he had not struggled against one dark force or another. But as he stood on his own land, before his own house, and thought of the little girl within that he was finally able to protect, he couldn't bring himself to regret a moment of it.

* * *

"Will you be gone for a very long time?"

Lucia's question was muffled by Bjolmi's thick, fur-lined cloak. He half turned his head towards the well-bundled lass behind him and a tiny smile arose unbidden at the way she pressed herself into his back. He wasn't certain if it was for warmth or for fear of falling off the horse, but he found it…comfortable. She had been hesitant to let him lift her into the saddle, but had stubbornly refused to admit to him that she was afraid. He found her bravado amusing, but he certainly couldn't fault her for being timid. Ajax _was_ a warhorse, and despite being on the downward side of his prime for a charger he was a fair amount larger than the little pack ponies she'd seen traders use to haul their goods into Whiterun.

"I'm not sure," he replied, the motion of Ajax's shifting frame bobbing them up and down as they meandered across a shallow stream. They could have reached their destination by now if Bjolmi had only nudged the charger into a canter, but he was reluctant to return to Whiterun. He had been summoned to Dragonsreach by the jarl himself, but the lack of details in the courier's letter made him suspicious.

"It depends on what the jarl wants. I could be back tomorrow, or—" He trailed off. The summons hadn't referenced the events of three years ago, but his full title had been included in the address. He had the feeling it had been placed there deliberately to remind him that he was duty-bound to obey, and he didn't appreciate the subtle prod. He had never been one to be guilted into things. Regardless, his gut told him that he would be gone for some time.

Lucia pulled away from him to readjust her hood.

"The letter was from the jarl so it has to be important," she said cheerfully. "It's okay if it takes a while. And I'll work very hard for Vantus and Curwe while you're away so I won't be a burden to them."

Bjolmi frowned beneath his own hood. The arrangement he'd made with the farmer, Vantus Loreius, was meant to ensure Lucia's safety and care during his absence. Vantus had always struck him as a decent enough man, if a little curt, and he reasoned that Vantus and Lucia's shared Imperial ancestry, along with Vantus's Altmer wife, meant the girl wouldn't have to endure the racial biases that were currently sweeping the country. It was exactly the anti-outsider attitude of Bjolmi's kinsmen that had caused Lucia to remain homeless for so long in the first place. But Lucia had unwittingly planted a seed of doubt in his mind with her comment. He was unused to caring for a child, and the common concerns of parents were sometimes delayed in him. How well did he really know the couple that would have complete power over his charge for as long as he was gone? What if they weren't kind to her? His mind filled with thoughts of every worst case scenario his imagination was capable of concocting, including the possibility of Vantus working the poor girl to the bone and leaving her in the stables at night. He felt his chest tighten and his neck grow hot. Reining Ajax to a stop, he turned in the saddle so he could see her face.

"Lucia," he began, and then faltered. Where could he tell her to go if something happened? Home? Whitewatch Tower? Whiterun? What contingency plan could he possibly give her that wouldn't involve her running through the wilderness, tempting the appetite of every wolf, bear and sabre cat this side of the Dragon Bridge? He searched silently for alternatives to flight, and a minute or two passed before he realized Lucia was looking at him expectantly.

"Sit tight," he said, sliding out of Ajax's saddle and dropping deftly to the ground. He flipped open one of the saddle bags and rummaged through it a moment before pulling out a small cooking knife. It wasn't much, but it would do. She looked down at him, all innocence, as he placed it in her hand.

"It's small," he said. "But it's sharp." He tried to sound lighthearted—or at least normal—but the thought of harm befalling the lass had tied his throat into knots, and his words came out deep and coarse. He gestured to his boot, pulling back the folded leather below his knee to reveal the hilt of the blade that resided there.

"Keep it in your boot, like this. Don't tell anyone you have it. And if anything should happen…use it to protect yourself."

Lucia's brow crinkled as she looked at the knife, then at Bjolmi.

"It's okay if you've never used one before," he continued. "Just remember to grip the handle tightly and aim for one of these places." He pointed in turn to his eye, his throat, his gut, and then—rather awkwardly—to his groin. He doubted she'd be able to kill an attacker with that little needle but she could certainly slow them down. Her face showed the same uncertainty as when she'd first met Ajax, so Bjomli gave her what he hoped was a comforting smile and showed her how to tuck it safely into her boot. Then he was back in the saddle, and their journey resumed.

Ajax trudged on. Lucia hummed softly to herself, arms wrapped tightly around Bjolmi's silent form. Bjolmi's thoughts were so far from the present that he didn't see the jutting windmill of Loreius Farm until they were nearly beneath it. Vantus and Curwe had come out to meet them, the sturdy farmer's trousers already coated with dirt and dust from his early morning labors.

"I appreciate this," Bjolmi said, handing Lucia's rucksack to Curwe. The elf woman smiled-the expression surprisingly warm on her sharp features-and took Lucia's hand. "I can't say when I'll be back, but if it's longer than a fortnight I will make other arrangements."

"Never mind that," Vantus said gruffly. "Balgruuf doesn't summon commoners to his keep for nothing. You just deal with your business and come back when you can."

"Besides," Curwe added. "It'll be nice to have another young lady around."

"Another?" Vantus snorted. "There are only _old_ ladies around here, far as I've seen."

Curwe jabbed him in the ribs.


	3. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Now that some of the less exciting intro stuff is out of the way, we can get down to business. Thanks to everyone who has read so far, and for everyone who continues on to this chapter. Feel free to review/critique; I know it needs polishing and I would love to know where I can improve. Particular thanks to Freefall for the extremely heartening review, as well as the much deserved criticisms!

On that note, if anyone is willing to put up with my rough attempts and edit my chapter content before I publish, I would really appreciate it. Just PM me and we can make arrangements :)

*As for canon facts, I know Hrongar refers to Balgruuf as 'brother' in dialogue, but it isn't specifically stated anywhere that this isn't simply an endearment. I chose to assume the relation. Also, Lydia is never listed as having a surname so I picked one I felt appropriate. 'Brunager' consists of the prefix _brun_, which means 'brown', and _ager_ (also _aker_), which means 'field'.

**Where by the Boldest Man**

Summons

"They're holed up in Valtheim Towers, a skeletal ruin just east of the city. Although an accurate count is impossible at this point, we wager there are about twenty of the bastards."

Bjolmi listened with growing unease as Irileth, housecarl to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, began to brief them on the most recent threat to security in the hold. The jarl was present as well, accompanied by his steward, Proventus Avenicci. Hrongar, Balgruuf's hulking, axe-laden brother, hovered nearby as was his custom. Bjolmi had yet to be informed of the reason for his presence.

"They call themselves the Red Hand, and they've been harassing merchant caravans and outlying farmsteads for months."

"The Red Hand?" Hrongar quipped. "If they're as obvious in battle as they are in their choice of monikers, I suggest we send Fianna and Gerda after them and call it a day."

Balgruuf chuckled under his hand at the thought of his elderly maids shaming the bandits into submission with scolds and finger wags, but Irileth was clearly not amused.

"Seven travelers have died by the hands of these monsters _that we know of, _and countless items of great worth are missing," she snapped. "Trade in the area has come to a halt for fear of the Red Hand, and should things escalate it will mean the deterioration of our entire economy. I hardly find this a laughing matter." The dunmer woman shot a chilling glare in Hrongar's direction before her gaze settled on Balgruuf. In Bjolmi's experience her expressions ranged from stern to grim, but he thought he detected a hint of disappointment at that moment. The jarl saw it as well.

"Yes, Irileth, you are quite right," he said with regained composure, "and may the Nine bless the souls of the passed and guide them safely to Sovngarde. Please continue." Despite Bjolmi's limited interactions with Balgruuf, it was already clear to him that the jarl's sharp featured—and sharp tongued—housecarl was the only soul in Tamriel that could rebuke him without reprimand. Bjolmi couldn't help but wonder if the jarl had simply found a soft spot for the dunmer woman, or if stronger forces were at work. After all, it had been eight years since the jarlessa had died. Many men would have remarried in half that time.

Irileth brought their attention to the map spread before her, which showed the entire expanse of the White Hold. She stuck the point of her dagger in some foothills northeast of the city.

"The Red Hand were originally holed up in these hills. They're sneaky devils, attacking from nowhere and disappearing without a trace. Even our scouts couldn't track them down. We only discovered the network of tunnels they were hiding in after a local khajiit trader called Shavir was caught fencing goods for them."

Hrongar smacked a calloused fist against his breastplate.

"Five minutes in a cell with me and he was singing like a pine thrush!" he crowed.

Irileth ignored his boasts.

"The cave system is called Shimmermist. It's mostly overrun with Falmer, but the wretched creatures tend to avoid any caverns too close to the surface, so it made an ideal hideout. A fortnight ago we attacked, killing many of them and forcing the rest to flee into the depths. We hoped the Falmer would take care of the survivors, but they resurfaced four nights ago, attacking and killing an Imperial nobleman and his entourage."

"Idiot shouldn't have been traveling at night if he didn't know how to defend himself," Hrongar snorted.

"They have now taken over Valtheim Towers, which is proving a heavily defensible location despite decades of neglect." She pulled out a square of parchment which bore a rough sketch of the tower's design.

"They have posted archers here, here, and here," she said, pointing to the arched walkway which spanned the river, connecting the two towers, as well as the rooftop of each. "Two visible scouts monitor the road, with possible more hidden here, and armored swordsmen have been seen patrolling in each direction along the river."

Irileth sat down, apparently finished. All eyes turned to Bjolmi, who all but laughed when he realized their intent.

"You want me to take a fortress that your trained guard has been unable to get close to for four days?"

Irileth nodded grimly.

Were they out of their minds? From what Irileth had shown him this was a job for an entire mercenary band, not a lone man who preferred smithing blades to wielding them.

"We don't expect you to accept out of obligation," Balgruuf interjected, another subtle jab at Bjolmi's wasted thane-hood. "I have it from several sources that you now occupy yourself as something of a sell-sword. I am told you even kill, if the coin is good enough. We can offer you five thousand gold septims, should you succeed in this venture. From what I hear of your past deeds, this amount is sufficient, yes?"

Bjolmi cringed. What Balgruuf said was true, in a sense, though he didn't appreciate the phrasing. After he'd stormed out of Whiterun three years ago, penniless and friendless, he had begun taking whatever work came his way so long as it wasn't too unsavory. But when folk learned of his skill with a bow, he began to receive offers for more dangerous tasks, and what had begun as farm work and hauling ore turned into tracking snow wolves and clearing bear dens. Inevitably, he was asked to turn his bow towards human prey. He wasn't proud of everything he'd done, but had never killed an innocent, and he would hardly call his actions mercenary—or so he told himself. He had needed the coin for Lucia's sake.

He needed it still, unfortunately. He may have saved the girl from poverty on the streets, but poverty in a hovel could hardly count as an improvement, and five thousand septims would see them through the winter comfortably and then some.

"Have you tried approaching from the north?" he suggested, avoiding Balgruuf's question. "I'm sure a few stealthy souls could descend on them from the outcropping above; take the guards out before their archers have a chance to take aim. Then while they're distracted, your soldiers could enter the tower in force from below."

Irileth shook her head. "It won't work. Scouts have been spotted as far east as this ridge; our men would alert them as soon as they stepped foot on the mountain."

Bjolmi sighed and gazed down at the map, stroking his beard as he pondered the situation. If _their _men would be spotted immediately, he would certainly fare no better. He may be surprisingly nimble for a man his size, but he was no shadow walker. In his periphery, he could see Balgruuf eying him shrewdly.

"I am surprised by your hesitance," the jarl said. "You have quite a reputation in the wilder regions of the Hold and I thought this task fell well within your area of expertise. Perhaps I was mistaken. We can look elsewhere, if your skills have been exaggerated."

Bjolmi had no interest in taking that bait. Balgruuf may think this a clever angle to play, but if Bjolmi was going to take this job he wouldn't let wounded pride be the reason.

"I can't see what I could do that would be more effective than simply storming the place," he fibbed, refusing to meet Balgruuf's piercing stare.

"Can you not."

Silence fell around the table, no one willing to state the obvious. Bjolmi felt his temper flare at their silence. He knew well enough what they wanted from him but that particular…_service_ wasn't for sale, and if they weren't willing to ask about it openly, he sure as hell wasn't going to bring it up. He never asked for it. He didn't want it. And he'd be damned if he let anyone try to tell him how or when—or even _if_—he should use it.

He pondered the out that Balgruuf had left him. He could claim that he wasn't up to the task; that whoever the jarl's sources were, they were clearly mistaken about Bjolmi's abilities. It would certainly be the easiest path, and he could be home with Lucia by nightfall. A second refusal might even convince Balgruuf to leave him alone for good…

Then again, five thousand septims was a _lot _of coin.

Bjolmi sighed. "Give me the rest of the day to prepare. Tomorrow I will expel the Red Hand from Valtheim Towers."

Balgruuf raised a brow slightly, but his expression remained otherwise unchanged.

"We appreciate your willingness to serve," he said, then added softly, "May Talos guide you."

_I will do this without invoking your ancient magics,_ Bjolmi swore silently.

Unfortunately, to do so would require some help…

* * *

The Drunken Huntsman was without a doubt one of the more infamous establishments in Whiterun's Plains District. Owned by two bosmer brothers, it supplied some of the finest archery equipment for sale in the Hold—as well as some of its drunkest archers. Whoever it was that came up with the idea to combine a tavern and a hunting shop certainly earned points for creativity, but Bjolmi couldn't help but question their judgment.

The evening's patrons were a rowdy bunch, and Bjolmi could hear their shouts and laughter before he even opened the door. The eclectic group of leather and fur-clad men sat huddled around wooden tables that were damp with spilled mead, laughing heartily as one of their companions told a downright salacious story about an argonian maidservant and her lustful master. The low lighting of the room obscured many of their faces, making it difficult to spot his quarry.

"Hello, my nord friend, in the market for some hunting supplies?" the wood-elf behind the counter asked. Bjolmi had long ago gotten used to this sort of greeting. Despite having lived in Cyrodiil most of his life, his height, broad shoulders and well-muscled frame made him look like a native of the north. And as much as he wished he had inherited some physical trait to remind him of his mother, he couldn't help but be thankful for inheriting his father's face. It was a dangerous time for Imperials in Skyrim.

"How about a drink instead?" he replied, dropping a coin on the counter. The elf's smile widened as he picked it up, setting down a tankard of mead in its place.

"It's Honningbrew Mead. Finest in the Hold."

"And in Skyrim!" someone shouted, and a sea of mugs were raised in agreement, followed by a hearty _here, here!_ The elven barman merely chuckled.

"So tell me, what brings you to Whiterun friend?" he asked, using a stained rag to wipe up the flecks of foam and mead that had splattered the bar during the impromptu toast.

Bjolmi took a long draft from his tankard before answering.

"Just business," he said vaguely.

"Well, you picked the right place to spend your evening. The Bannered Mare may have better food-"

"And a better looking owner!" someone shouted.

"-But we boast the best stories. Would you like to hear how the Drunken Huntsman got its name?"

"Perhaps some other time," Bjolmi replied, downing the rest of his drink. "Actually, I was hoping you could help me find someone." The elf cocked an eyebrow, obviously intrigued.

"Oh?"

"I haven't been to the city in a few years and I'm not sure what she's doing with herself these days. She's my—well, she's an old acquaintance of mine. I was told I might find her here. Her name is Lydia Brunager."

Silence fell. Bjolmi turned his head to see every eye in the room was trained on him, and the looks were not kind.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I got your name." The Bosmer's lilting voice suddenly contained a steely edge.

"Bjolmi Alriksso—" His response was cut short as the elf's fist collided painfully with the left side of his face. The blow made him stagger backwards, his vision swimming. He couldn't help but admire the barman's deceptively strong arm as his legs buckled and everything went black.


	4. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I suppose I should clarify that when I said 'canon' I meant with the exception of lesser characters I might add to fill in the story; people like extended family members or additional townspeople. Anyone else notice the curious lack of 13 to 25-year-olds in Skyrim? I know, probably died in the war. Anyway, I've pulled out a couple original characters in this one, but rest assured that anyone I add will function within the confines of the existing world, i.e. take the place of some nameless guard, belong to a group of bandits, be the cousin of that one guy that lives on that mountain, etc. The Dragonborn won't end up having an evil twin (_nega-dragonborn!_) that he duels for every dragon soul.

...though that could be cool :)

Once again, thanks to everyone who has checked this story out. Even if most people only glance at it, it's still encouraging to watch the counter go up. Freefall's critiques have once again been taken to heart, and I've been sure to revisit the earlier chapters to correct some of my mistakes.

Enjoy!

**Where by the Boldest Man**

Lydia

"Strike faster. Your attacks are sluggish today."

Lydia tightened her grip on the blade and did her best to oblige.

"Watch your feet! Keep that up and a heavy blow will knock you off balance."

Swearing to herself, she adjusted the angle of her steps. Taking advantage of her moment of distraction, Olfand made a powerful strike at her left side, hitting her squarely in the center of her shield. Unprepared for the blow, Lydia's shield arm buckled, and the force of the hit pushed her backwards.

"What did I say?"

She managed to remain upright, but only just got her sword up in time to parry her gray-haired opponent's downward sweep. Relentless, the older warrior continued his barrage of attacks until his pupil's weary muscles failed her and she dropped to one knee, signaling the end of their match.

"By the Nine, Brunager, what is wrong with you today?" Olfand asked, pulling his helmet free as he crossed Jorrvaskr's sparring ground to where she knelt.

Lydia's lungs were burning, and her legs vehemently protested her attempts to stand. Leaning her shield against her leg, she wiped her dripping forehead on the exposed sleeve of her tunic and tried to resist the urge to vomit.

"Had something of a late night," she replied, to Olfand's consternation. He grunted his displeasure as he hauled her to her feet.

"That rabble at the Drunken Huntsman again?" Lydia smirked, her nausea subsiding.

"What else should I do with my evenings?"

"Surely you can think of something more productive than getting drunk with that lot? Perhaps reading, or beating yourself in the head with a cudgel?"

"Either would make my head ache just as badly."

"Yes, but at least you'd be spared Elrindir's gods-awful storytelling."

Lydia grinned, and slapped Olfand wearily on his plated shoulder.

"Look at it this way, Olfand. At least when I'm hung over, you get to enjoy the illusion that you can still beat me."

The older man's eyes glittered in spite of his frown.

"Boast all you want, little girl, but it wasn't that long ago that you didn't know which end of a sword to grip, and I had to clean your wounds and wipe your tears after every round."

"And soon I'll have to carry your feeble old bones to the chamber pot and wipe the spittle from your chin, so I suppose we're even," she shot back, sheathing her blade and slinging her battered practice shield over her shoulder.

Olfand threw his head back and laughed heartily, wrapping an arm affectionately around Lydia's as they abandoned Jorravskr's rear courtyard for the narrow path that threaded between the Companions' hulking mead hall and their famous Skyforge.

"Too true, my girl, too true. But if Talos is merciful, he will grant me an honorable death in battle before I'm quite the doddering old fool you already think me to be."

"Don't let the Battle-borns hear you say that." A thought struck her, and she laughed aloud. "Or perhaps you should. Then you'll certainly die in a fight!"

The pair stepped aside to allow two steel-clad Companions to pass by. Neither of the guild members greeted them, or even glanced in their direction, but Lydia took no offense. It was simply their way.

Jorrvaskr reminded her of a beehive. Day or night, there were always people coming and going, too occupied with their tasks at hand to pay much attention to anyone who wasn't a Companion. She supposed it was this absolute dedication to their craft that made them the most respected warrior's guild in Skyrim. They were drawn towards anything violent, however, and it was not unusual for two or three of them to pause beneath the back portico in order to watch her fight.

Lydia had always wondered why the Companions' guild master, Kodlak, had allowed her free use of Jorrvaskr's sparring ground and training dummies, as the guild's members were-as a rule-fairly territorial. She suspected it had originally been as a favor to Balgruuf the Elder, who had first suggested that she take up the sword. But she couldn't help hoping that its continuance after the old jarl's passing was at least somewhat due to her martial skills. Ever since she had become Olfand's pupil she had longed to be worthy of Kodlak's notice.

_Not that it makes any bloody difference now, _she thought bitterly. Even if she exceeded Vilkas and Farkas' talent combined, she could never join the Companions. She was sworn to that milk-drinking, Imperial-born thane_. For life_.

Speaking of Farkas…

The man himself appeared before them as they rounded the turn, clearly having just returned from some mission or other. His boots and greaves were caked with mud, and there were splashes of black across his chest plate and arms which she could only assume were dried blood. His broadsword was strapped to his back, and he had a filthy burlap sack slung over one shoulder.

"Greetings, Lydia Brunager," he greeted her. "Olfand Niels."

"Farkas," Olfand replied. "How went the hunt?"

"Not so good. We found nothing of Wuuthrad in the ruins." Lydia recalled that Wuuthrad was the legendary axe of Ysgramor, founder of the Companions. It had been the guild's mission to seek out its shattered pieces and reunite them for as long as she could remember. As prominent members of the Companions, Farkas and his twin brother, Vilkas, were often away, tracking down leads on the locations of its missing shards.

She envied them. They each had a clear cut purpose in life, as well as the freedom to fulfill it. She had always led an aimless existence in this city, never truly finding purpose until three years ago when she had been named a housecarl. But no sooner had her oath been made than the wretch to which she had been bound cast off his title and his duty, and fled like a coward into the wilderness.

She felt her temper flare at the memories and pushed them from her mind.

"Looks like you found _something_," she said, gesturing towards Farkas' burden. There was a beat of silence before his face lit up with excitement. Farkas sometimes took a moment longer to process things. Lydia often got the impression that he was too distracted by matters elsewhere to give much thought to the present. Unless he was killing something, that is.

"Yes," he said, dropping the sack to the ground and reaching a muscled, blood-spattered arm inside. When his hand reappeared, it was clutching the matted brown scalp of a man's severed head. Lydia cringed at the sight. She had seen death before, but the bits of ripped muscle and tendon that dangled from the mutilated neck were enough to revive her earlier nausea. She wondered what the poor bastard had done to warrant his head in a bag.

"Looks like he didn't much care for you," she said. The face was covered in blood, dirt, and gore, but the look of rage frozen on its features was unmistakable.

"No; I think that's because I was trying to kill him," Farkas replied flatly, and Lydia had to hide her laughter behind a gauntlet-ed hand. Anyone else would have meant it as a joke, but Farkas was clearly serious. It was one of the things she liked about him: he was remarkably straightforward, no matter the occasion. She noticed him looking at her, but if he was offended by her amusement, he made no sign of it.

"It's good to see you have returned unharmed," Olfand said as Farkas dropped his gruesome prize back out of sight. "I know how precarious those old crypts can be."

"Concern is unnecessary. I was with my shield-brothers. No harm could come to me." His dark-rimmed eyes remained on Lydia.

Olfand glanced from the young warrior to his pupil. "Yes. Well. I suppose I should return to the barracks." He nodded to Farkas and flashed a suggestive smile at Lydia. "I bid you both good day."

Lydia scowled at his back as he departed.

"It is good to see that you are well," Farkas said. "Have you told Olfand about us?"

"Gods, no!" she nearly shouted.

"I think he knows."

Lydia sighed. She had never told Olfand anything about her occasional night-time trysts with Farkas, but she had to have known he would figure it out eventually. He was too damn perceptive for his own good.

"Ignore Olfand," she said. "He thinks he knows a lot of things."

Farkas gazed at her steadily, his neutral face betraying nothing of his thoughts. Many people assumed that his lack of expressiveness stemmed from a simple mind, but she knew better. He simply didn't waste energy on the trivial. His genius was clear enough when he fought, and Lydia had seen him be more than expressive in…other situations.

"Will you come to the Underforge tonight?" he asked.

She couldn't help a nervous look behind her, worried that someone might have overheard the invitation, but Farkas seemed unconcerned.

"Do not worry," he said, guessing her thoughts. "Ria and Skjor are arguing out back but no one else is around." She wondered how he could possibly know that, seeing as he had just arrived, but she didn't question him. She was suddenly distracted by the look he bore. She couldn't interpret it.

They hadn't always met in the secret chamber beneath Skyforge, but after the night watch almost discovered them in a little-used corner of the ramparts, Farkas had suggested the Underforge as a more secluded alternative. It certainly wasn't ideal, but as she slept in the woman's guard barracks, and he in the communal bunks in Jorrvaskr, neither of their beds had ever been an option. She felt it a testament to one's lack of privacy in Whiterun, that they were forced to flee underground for a moment of undisturbed peace.

And then there was the whole 'disgracing a sacred shrine' aspect. She was honored that Farkas trusted her with the knowledge of the Underforge's location, but she couldn't help feeling more than a little guilty about using such a revered place to pursue her baser, more animal needs; especially after Kodlak had been so kind to her all these years. But she trusted Farkas, and if he felt no qualms about it, she wasn't going to let a little guilt deprive her of the one thing in her life she actually had control over.

Something in her stream of thoughts sparked recognition and she realized that the look in his eyes was want. His usually stony expression was imploring her silently. She couldn't blame him, really. Farkas had been away for over a fortnight, sleeping on the ground, exposed to the elements, and fighting gods knew what. After the dangers of the wilderness and whatever crumbling, ancient tomb he'd had to fight his way through, it was no wonder he needed relief. And after a moment of introspection, she found that she could use a little distraction as well.

"I will come," she said at last.

He astonished her by smiling.

"Then I will see you tonight."

* * *

That evening, Lydia sat on her bunk in the guard barracks considering the best course of action. She would need to leave shortly in order to meet Farkas, but the memory of his smile that morning made her hesitant. She wondered if he had begun to interpret their relationship as being a little more than it was.

She certainly liked Farkas, and she respected him a whole hell of a lot, both as a man and as a warrior. He was handsome as well, beneath all those calluses and scars, and the dark rings of weariness that never faded from his eyes. But she wasn't interested in anything beyond what they already had. She _couldn't_ be interested. They were two adults with natural needs and desires, and nothing more. Hell, even if she allowed herself a moment to ponder Farkas as a…mate, her conclusion would be irrelevant. She required the blessing of her thane in order to marry, and for all she knew he was sitting drunk in some tavern in Solitude or roasting on a giant's spit in the far reaches of the Pale. She rather hoped it was the latter.

Her chest tightened as the emotions she suppressed on a daily basis began to well up within her. This was the sad fact of her existence. Being a housecarl was supposed to be an honored position, given only to those who had proven themselves honorable and capable. But without a thane to serve she felt like a fraud. She had no purpose. She was back to being that petrified little orphan girl in Dragonsreach, finding menial tasks just to fill the time but with no real path to follow: always out of place, always in someone's way. And unless some miracle brought that miserable whoreson back to Whiterun, she was doomed to spend the rest of her days in this intolerable limbo.

Tears threatened the corners of her eyes but she clutched the edge of her mattress and forced them away. Exhaling sharply, she stood and straightened her tunic. Wallowing in pity was pointless. She was a child no longer, and she refused to act like one.

Pressing her palms firmly against her eyes to eradicate any lingering moisture, Lydia ducked through the barracks door and ran smack into—

"Tabor?" The young man she'd collided with made an awkward movement of his head, like he'd started to bow but then thought better of it. It was a familiar quirk of the lad's, having been a servant until an unlikely inheritance made him the equal of those he once served. He was never quite sure how much deference to show.

"Miss Brunager, ma'am," he said hurriedly.

"Are you alright, boy? You look flushed. Has Elrindir been serving you his special home brew again?"

Tabor was a fixture at the Drunken Huntsman in the evenings, drawn by the epic tales of battle and bloodshed, and had long since attached himself to Lydia and her comrades. They'd never interacted outside the tavern, though, and his sudden appearance at her place of residence was unexpected-and a little worrying..

"Elrindir sent me," he said, all three words tumbling out as one. "A man came looking for you tonight. I was sent to fetch you. Elrindir knocked him out!"

What in Tamriel…Lydia swore the boy must be drunk.

"What man, Tabor? And why did Elrindir knock him out?"

"Alriksson!" Tabor breathed. "Thane Alriksson has returned!"

Lydia felt the blood drain from her face, and her legs were suddenly unable to support her weight. Tabor saw her waver and jumped to, slipping her arm over his shoulder and lowering her onto the barracks steps.

"Are you okay Miss Brunager?"

He came back. _ The bloody coward came back!_

A torrent of conflicting emotions vied for command within her. The humiliation of her dismissal and the ensuing years of spirit-withering uselessness flashed before her eyes in a single heartbeat. She saw her younger self, struggling and sweating and bleeding day after day so she might grow up strong and make something honorable of herself; and she saw that copper-haired bastard of a man crush her every aspiration with one venomous word from his detestable mouth. Her nostrils flared, her breath seething. The purity of her rage was tainted only by the faintest hope that this might mean the end of _waiting_-that she might finally be able to leave this suffocating city and breath freely in the great, wild expanse beyond…

"Where is he now, Tabor?" she demanded.

"He's in one of Elrindir's rooms in the Huntsman," answered the boy, clearly unsettled by her tone and demeanor.

"Show me," she growled, all thoughts of Farkas gone in light of this new development. "I want to see the bastard."

* * *

Bjolmi's eyes opened slowly, his muddled thoughts slow to take shape as his mind clawed its way back from unconsciousness. He was lying flat on his back, a throbbing pain radiating from the left side of his face. He reached for some memory that would explain the soreness in his jaw and a vision of Helgen swam into view; of a charred corpse and his hand smeared with blood. Adrenaline surged and he sat up in a panic, hands flying to his face of their own accord to wipe away ash and filth that wasn't there. His pounding heart slowed when he saw no evidence of blood, and the real reason for his blackout came drifting back to him.

He saw that he was sitting on a lumpy, straw-stuffed mattress in a sparsely decorated room and wondered if he was still in the Huntsman. He was determined to find the elf that had flattened him and demand an explanation.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he froze mid-stand when he realized he was not alone. Someone was sitting on a chest against the wall opposite him. It was a woman.

It was very clearly a woman, despite the unflattering crimson tunic and men's trousers she wore. She sat with her arms crossed over her chest and one leg draped over the other, the toe of her leather boot bobbing rhythmically. Her shoulder-length brown hair was unadorned, and while her features were almost delicate, one look at the intensity behind her gaze convinced him she was no fragile damsel. He wondered what she was doing in his room—or, perhaps, what he was doing in hers?

He wasn't sure whether to sit or stand, but he was feeling increasingly awkward so he decided to sit. He waited for her to speak, but she seemed to have no intention of doing so.

"Am I in the Huntsman?" he asked at last. She nodded slowly, but remained silent.

"I don't suppose…did you happen to see what happened? To me, I mean?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"The last thing I remember, I was talking to an elf..."

Her nostrils flared and Bjolmi could see the muscles in her throat go taught as she clenched her jaw. He had apparently said something wrong. Was she upset because he was in her bed? He certainly hadn't put himself there. Maybe he should just leave…

"I can go, if you like," he tried.

Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

What did he do now? She didn't want him asking questions, but she didn't want him to leave? He was beginning to feel the ridiculousness of this situation and resolved to leave her to her scowls at once when he recalled what he had originally come here for. His cheeks reddened and his neck grew hot. Suddenly her anger made complete sense. Sighing, he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Shit. You must be Lydia."


	5. Chapter 4

Author's Note: First and foremost, if you haven't read the revised chapter 3 with the 'Bjolmi waking up from his fist-induced coma' chunk at the end, you'll want to go back and do that now. I had written it with the chapter originally and then omitted it at the last second, but decided it fit better with that chapter than this one.

That being said. This chapter was agony, from start to finish. I don't think I've ever had worse writer's block on a story where I already knew what was going to happen. I re-wrote the first section at least eight times, resolved to skip their reunion altogether, and then convinced myself I should throw in the towel because this story was garbage anyway. But. After banging my head against my keyboard for several days, enough coherent words came out to call it finished, so here it is. Hopefully with it out of the way, I can go back to posting new content every couple of days.

Many thanks to everyone who reads; if it weren't for you I would have given up by now. Reviews are much needed and always welcome, and if anyone has a strong enough stomach to beta read for me I would love you forever (Freefall, this means you. Make an account already!)

**Where by the Boldest Man**

Reunion

"This is not how I envisioned this going."

Lydia said nothing. Bjolmi found it unsettling to hold her gaze for long and so spared himself by examining her person, trying to match the woman before him to the one from his memories. Surely he recognized _something _about her. But no; the brevity of their initial encounter, coupled with his turbulent state of mind at the time, had prevented any permanent impressions from forming, and he'd been left only with her name and a faceless form of leather and steel. When his eyes returned to hers, he observed her disgusted countenance and realized—to his own embarrassment—how she had interpreted his searching look. He cursed his northerner's complexion for flushing so readily.

"What did you imagine would happen?" she demanded, tightening her arms protectively in front of her chest. Her voice…now _that _struck a chord. It had a distinct, almost velvety quality that had lingered in his ears for weeks after he'd left the city, repeating that chilling phrase: _I am yours to command_.

He made an obscure gesture with his hands. "Honestly, I hadn't a clue. I figured you would be angry with me, but I'd hoped to convince you to at least hear me out before you declared your resolution never to see me again. I certainly hadn't anticipated being knocked on my ass the second I walked in the door. I must say, your friend has quite the arm."

"I had nothing to do with that," she snapped.

"He simply assaults random customers then, does he?"

"He doesn't like Imperials."

"He greeted me as a Nord."

She scowled. She was good at that. "Elrindir does as he pleases. If he felt someone deserved a good smack then I trust his judgment."

"Except that the Bosmer and I had never before met, and the few words we exchanged were amicable. It was only when I mentioned your name that he showed any kind of animosity."

"Assume what you like but I never asked him to hurt you."

_That doesn't mean you didn't inspire the idea…_

"No," he said with growing hostility. "You merely seeded him with a negative opinion of me; one severe enough to provoke him to violence the moment he learned who I was." She bristled.

"I did no such thing."

"Really? What else could explain his reaction? I was told that you frequent this establishment, and now every soul within these walls looks at me as though I were the World-Eater himself! As I've no history with any of _them, _I can only assume the one is the result of the other, and I'm left to wonder how many others in this city have been encouraged to despise me unjustly in my absence."

His words were more severe than he'd meant them to be, but her voice and countenance had put him on edge and the throbbing pain in his jaw was making him belligerent. Moreover, he could see by the blush rising in her cheeks that he'd struck somewhere near the truth.

"I'm not the conspirator you imagine. Elrindir _is _a friend of mine, but I've made no effort to set the citizens of Whiterun against you, as you claim." She spoke quickly, her temper rising. "It's true he commiserated with my situation after I was so promptly and callously dismissed, but you can hardly blame him, or anyone else for that matter, for using your treatment of _me_ as the foundation for their opinion of _you_. Frankly, I'm insulted on their behalf that you think them so easily manipulated, and if you receive blows and angry looks from every man, woman and child in the city I say you've brought it on yourself. They don't need _my_ help to accurately judge a man's character, and they have no truck with bullies or cowards!"

Bjolmi stood suddenly, provoked by the charge of cowardice, and was shocked at the satisfaction he felt when she flinched. His intention had been to vent his growing anger by pacing the room, but she must have thought he aimed at physical retaliation. That she found him intimidating was shamefully gratifying.

"A coward, am I? I'm not the one who has apparently squandered the last three years in a bloody tavern, wallowing in drink and self-pity. I'm not the one who spreads malicious gossip to sooth my wounded ego. I'm well aware that my words to you back then must have been hurtful, and I can't blame you for being slighted by my rejection of your services; but I am in no way responsible for your inability to you move on from past grievances." Her eyes blazed. "And even if I was, sulking like a child is hardly befitting for a person of your situation!"

Where had that even come from? His mouth was speaking words his brain had not sanctioned.

Now she was on her feet too, arms at her sides, fists clenched. She looked at him with pure hatred.

"It is _because_ of my situation that I am _prevented _from moving on! Do you think I _enjoyed _sitting idle for so long; that with a world of opportunities open to me I would actually _choose _to waste my time as I have? I had no choice! You forbade me from following you when you left, and with no instructions for the meantime, what could I do but remain here; waiting, hoping that one day you would return so I could at last be of some use to _somebody?"_

Had he really forbade her from leaving? His mind raced back to that day, on the steps of Dragonsreach, and recounted their words to each other. She'd bowed; he'd told her to leave. _I am sworn to protect you._ He didn't want protection. She insisted and he'd shouted…

"I told you to do as you pleased," he countered weakly, no longer shouting; no longer certain that he held the high ground. "If you stayed in the city it's your own bloody fault." Even as he said it he knew it wasn't true, and he endured the storm of her fury in shame, knowing it was well deserved.

"My _life _was sworn to you that day!" she cried, pain etched in her words. "From the moment Balgruuf pronounced me your housecarl I had no wants! My sole purpose until my death or yours is to serve and protect you, and because of your selfish disregard for anyone but yourself I have spent the last three years dithering about in this uneventful cow-pat of a city with no more demand on my time than to eat, sleep, and wait for your milk-drinking hide to return and save me from the tedium.

"You think I should have left? You think I should have followed your example and turned my back on my jarl, my people, and everything I've ever believed in to go gallivanting across Skyrim as I pleased without a shred of self-respect to keep me from sleeping at night? You may have no notion of honor or duty in Cyrodiil but I am a _true _Nord, a daughter of Skyrim; I do not take my responsibilities lightly and I fulfill my oaths!"

Bjolmi had no response to this. It was clear now that he was woefully ignorant of the severity of Nord customs and traditions, for he'd never realized the extent to which thane and housecarl were bonded. She had tried to tell him, that day; he remembered it now. _I am your sword and your shield… _Perhaps he hadn't understood at the time, but it was more likely he simply hadn't wanted to. But the stupid girl had waited for him…all this _time!_ It didn't make sense! Naturally he would have expected this kind of blind loyalty from Irileth, but she served a jarl; a great and powerful man. Bjolmi was nothing: a hapless traveler who had stumbled out of his depths and was called a hero because he managed not to die before being washed in with the tide. He was not worth her sacrifice, which made it all the more painful to know she had made it.

He silently rebuked himself for lashing out as he had, the matter with the elf a trivial offense when compared to his own sins. He heard his own voice in his head, cruelly rebuking her for misspent years, and suddenly 'coward' and 'bully' seemed deplorably accurate.

He turned away from her quickly, disgusted with himself for allowing his temper to get the better of him. Moving to the open floor at the foot of the bed, he stood with his back to her in order to collect himself. Their exchange had escalated at an alarming pace, and after thoroughly insulting and abusing her to her face she would never agree to join him. He wasn't sure he wanted her to, for her presence would only serve as a constant reminder of his own _stupidity_. His legs screamed at him to run; to leave the Huntsman, Whiterun, perhaps even Skyrim, and never look back. He was a fool through and through it seemed; better to be a fool in a land where no one knew you.

But her voice lingered in his ears once more, accusing and _right_; and he knew he could never live with himself if he abandoned her again. He thought too of Lucia; of her innocent face, so ignorant of what an utter wretch she had watching over her, and prayed he would never fail her as thoroughly as he had failed Lydia.

He had to make amends, if that was at all possible at this point. Turning to face her once more, he resolved to offer what meager apologies he could and then submit to her wrath. Whatever she threw at him, be they words or fists, he would bear it dutifully—he owed her that much.

* * *

Lydia felt remarkably light, lighter than she'd felt since…well, since the last time she saw Alriksson. Their reunion had been intense, so much so that her hands were still trembling and she was having difficulties holding on to the steadily increasing pile of gear in her arms. But it had been everything she'd dared hoped for; and more, really.

She hadn't left the Huntsman until well after midnight and her off-rotation bunkmates were all slumbering quietly on their cots by the time she'd made it back to the barracks. She should have joined them; she wasn't due to meet Alriksson at the stables until dawn, and a few hours' rest prior to their journey would be preferable to none, but her body was still charged from their meeting and the anticipation of upcoming battle had rendered her far too restless to sleep.

So instead she had begun picking her way through the unconscious female forms around her, collecting her weapons and armor and any other items she thought she might need on the road. She was trying her best not to wake them, but her task was nearly impossible without _some _rustling of leather and clanging of steel.

"For fuck's sake, Brunager, stifle that gods-damned noise or I'll feed you to a dremora!"

"Sorry!" she hissed, just as an engraved bracer fell from the stack in her arms and clattered loudly across the floor. Willing her mutinous fingers to do as she commanded, she at last succeeded in packing the necessary items into a manageable bundle before slipping out the door.

She escaped around the corner of the building where she'd be safe from anymore threats and let her equipment fall noisily onto the grass. Plucking up a fur leg wrap, she knelt in the dew to fold it around the leather of her boot before digging through the clutter for the fitted steel of her greaves. She arranged the curved metal atop her well-padded shin and set about binding it in place. When it was secure, she moved on to her other leg.

Her thoughts drifted back to Alriksson as she dressed, replaying bits and pieces from their lengthy exchange. They had argued fiercely in the beginning and she'd initially found his temper violent, even fearing he would strike her at one point; but intimidating as he'd seemed, his anger and bravado had melted beneath the barrage of her insults and chastisements, which had flowed more freely than was probably wise, until at length he'd appeared downright penitent. Then he'd just stood there while she ranted and railed and raved, never interrupting even to defend himself. He couldn't have known how much she'd needed that, to purgethe bitterness and angst that had been festering inside her for so long. Coincidentally, by the time she'd exhausted herself and fallen silent, she found that much of her hatred for him had been purged as well, replaced by a stillness of spirit she hadn't felt for quite some time. She felt…at peace with it all; ready to leave the past where it lay and forge ahead into something new. That he'd asked her to leave with him on a job for the jarl was just icing on the sweet roll.

She fumbled with the ties of her right bracer, the less graceful fingers of her left hand unable to properly maneuver them into a knot. Olfand had always tightened it for her when she was little, gently teasing her for her clumsiness. She regretted being unable to bid him a proper farewell, but he would know where she went soon enough; she'd been sure to inform Elrindir that she would be leaving the city—right after she chided him for assaulting a thane. He may have done it out of loyalty to her, but she didn't want him beheaded simply to defend her honor.

Dressed at last, she considered how to while away the placid hours before sunrise. She thought fleetingly of going to the Underforge in case Farkas had waited up for her, but quickly dismissed the idea. Donning her armor had taken far too much time and effort to let him take it right back off again. Besides, he would no doubt be asleep in the bowels of Jorrvaskr by now.

She wanted to go somewhere open, outside the city walls. The dawn could bring many things, and she considered with no little gravity that if they succeeded with their mission, by this time tomorrow more than one man would be dead because of her. This knowledge made her yearn for intimacy; a connection with something beyond herself to put the events of tonight and possibilities of tomorrow into perspective. And since she couldn't find it with either of the men in her life, she sought it from country she loved more than the both of them combined.

Perched atop the crumbling, moss-laced stones of Whiterun's outer fortifications, Lydia closed her eyes and let the essence of her rugged homeland permeate her senses. There was a muffled roar of wind as it careened off the mountains to billow across the plains, subsiding into momentary stillness as it lost momentum, and then gusting forth with renewed enthusiasm as fresh currents joined and rejuvenated it. It was as though Skyrim were breathing, inhaling and exhaling as steadily as she, and Lydia wondered that the breeze now seeking out every niche and opening in her clothes and raising the hairs on her neck had begun its life far to the west, rolling in off the sea from alien lands she would likely never see.

Time escaped her, content as she was just to be alive and cradled by the cold stone, wrapped in the cold but comforting embrace of ghostly tendrils of early morning mist. She watched as the stars faded from the expanse above, and when the inky blackness began to recede, relinquishing its command of the sky to the crisp, white-gold beams of the sun as it was reborn for the myriad time, she pushed off the wall and dropped to the ground, the distant towers of Valtheim and the scoundrels it sheltered firmly at the forefront of her thoughts.


	6. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Yes, it's been forever, and I apologize. Every few days is clearly not working as an upload time frame. But, life can be chaos, and what can you do?

Anyway, here it is: action at last. Since it's been so long and I've read over it a ton, I crossed my fingers and skipped the beta read. Any mistakes are on my own hands.

A small side note, story trumps tiny details, and if a character has learned certain things at this point that would perhaps have required a few other things (namely killing dragons or finding shouts in dungeons) in the game, maybe we can all just ignore that and pretend it all makes sense? Okay. Enjoy!

**Where by the Boldest Man**

Valtheim

"Shouldn't we cross the river?"

"No."

"I thought Valtheim lay east of here."

"It does."

"Then why are we going north?"

There were no straight roads in Skyrim. It was a truth that Bjolmi had learned early on. The land was a geographical maelstrom; a cartographer's nightmare. The west was a labyrinth of glens and gullies, cut into the hearts of mountains by the capricious tide of a mighty river. In the north, glaciers and rock slides carved up the snow-bound wasteland like horker meat, and vast networks of ancient tunnels and caverns veining beneath its surface constantly threatened collapse. The heartland was hardly better, the otherwise sprawling tundra littered with stone runs and tors, and minute earthen mesas; and the rolling forests of the south and east were so infested with bear dens and hag warrens that walking straight for too long meant you were bound to stumble into one of them. And everywhere were ruins, half-buried and decrepit, jutting from earth and cliff-face like the sun-bleached bones of a lost era. The men of the north had found a way to live amidst this chaos, settling down in the smallest pockets of even terrain, and growing their country as water flows: along the path of least resistance.

Whiterun was no exception, and when the pair reached the intersection just past Honningbrew Meadery where the path from Riverwood came winding dizzily down out of the south and an arcing stone bridge carried travelers on the main road over the rushing White, Bjolmi had forsaken that eastern path and turned instead to the north. There were no straight roads; he knew this, and it was a testament to Lydia's inexperience that she did not.

The road they now walked—_walked_ because of the awkward moment at the stables that morning when Bjolmi realized Lydia had no horse, and she realized he hadn't the coin to provide her with one—took a meandering route past two modest farms, and at a distance, Whiterun itself; then drifted westward beneath Whitewatch Tower and ambled downhill through more farmland before disappearing into the snow-bound forests of The Pale. Bjolmi had no intention of following it to its conclusion, however, and as soon as Whiterun's outlying farms were behind them he edged onto a lesser used footpath that would take them eastward across the plains, and then up into the foothills north of the White River Valley.

The land they traversed was bare and open, the earth too thin and rocky to sustain anything more than spiky amber grass and stunted brush. In many places, the wind had removed the topsoil altogether to expose broad swaths of ore-rich stone. A pair of hawks circled overhead, no doubt eying the chattering rock warblers pecking for seeds amongst the sparse foliage, and a pack of gaunt, mangy wolves chased a dust-colored hare in the distance.

Neither of the travelers spoke. Bjolmi was no longer raw from their confrontation the night before, though he still regretted the level of dramatics that had overtaken them. _Perhaps I should enroll in the Bard's College_, he thought sardonically. Despite it all, he and Lydia seemed to have made some kind of tentative peace; though he could hardly imagine what she thought of him now. Ah, well; _the moons make fools of us all,_ his mother used to say. Now that he was away from the noise and fuss of the city and in the clear light of day he felt his normal self again, glad to face a problem he could solve with his sword rather than words.

He couldn't guess Lydia's thoughts, but hoped her silence stemmed from similar reflections, and not some residual grudge.

The path began to fade gradually as they distanced themselves from civilized lands, and when the sun was high above and the ground began to slope upwards beneath their feet, it disappeared altogether. Bjolmi had little trouble navigating the peaks and crags around them, however, though he'd never journeyed this way before. He'd studied remarkably detailed charts of the area at Dragonsreach, provided him by the jarl's meticulous housecarl.

Oh, Irileth's maps had been things of beauty. They included every bi-road and rivulet, each hunter's shack and crabber's shanty. No stone formation lay forgotten; no fallen tree unmarked. In his early days in Skyrim, Bjolmi would have done terrible things to get his hands on such a detailed layout of the Hold. Most that he'd come across bore only the major landmarks without accounting for things like bandit camps, mammoth stomping grounds, rock slides; the constantly shifting and all-important details. Irileth had noted all of these and more. The Dunmer woman deserved immense respect for the great pains she put into keeping her information exact and up to date, for the 'unexpected' turned to 'life-threatening' all too quickly in the wilder places of the world, and knowledge of your surroundings became as necessary for survival as a sturdy weapon.

It was early afternoon before Bjolmi suggested they stop and rest. He steered them toward a secluded wayshrine to Talos that had been built against a sheltering rock face not far out of their way. They would be able to rest easy, their backs guarded by vertical stone, and their rears spared the stabbing of pine needles by civilized seating. Lydia in particular seemed grateful for the comfortable respite, judging by the expression of relief that overwhelmed her flushed features. He could tell that she was unused to cross-country treks, however stubbornly she tried to mask her heavy breathing, and didn't envy her the amount of steel she bore as she dropped noisily onto one of the shrine's weather-beaten prayer benches. He looked her over, discreetly this time, trying to gauge if she'd still be in fighting condition by the time they reached their destination.

"You should try leather," he said, breaking the silence for the first time since they'd left Whiterun. She leaned her great round shield against the bench and withdrew her water skin, her look weary and quizzical.

"Your armor," he clarified. "A lighter suit would be less cumbersome on long journeys."

"I'm fine with steel," she said, and drank deeply. When she'd finished she wiped her lips on her forearm and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "I want more than cowhide between me and my opponent."

Bjolmi joined her on the bench, her shield ensuring a comfortable distance between them, and pulled rations of dried beef and bread from the hefty purse on his belt.

"We still have some distance to go, and likely won't stop again until Valtheim lies empty."

"I can keep up just fine," she said mumbled, her cheek round with half-chewed meat. Her eyes darted skeptically over his leather-clad frame. "Besides, what good is extra energy if I've a blade in my gut?"

* * *

It wasn't much later that Lydia began to question her own philosophy. Crouched as she was in the thickest brush and tree growth the mountain had to offer, metal plates pinching at her waist, underarms and thighs, she could definitely see the advantage of glorious, flexible leather.

Alriksson had warned her that they might have to get stealthy when they neared Fellglow Keep, doubting for the first time the jarl's intelligence that it was truly abandoned.

"Dangerous men flock to empty forts like moths to a candle," he'd said. "Had I scoured it myself in the morning, by nightfall it would be once more over-run." He had spoken this with a distant look in his eye, but one so full of disgust that she wondered if he knew this from personal experience.

_What has he been doing these past years?_ She wondered to herself.

Sure enough, the instant they clapped eyes on the swiftly disintegrating structure, they spotted at least three dark-robed figures, two keeping obvious watch and one tending a make-shift garden just beyond the keep's sinking entrance.

She had suggested a head-on approach since their numbers were so few, but the flickering red and gold of a flame atronach drifting lazily into view convinced them both that stealth was the wiser option. These were mages—most likely necromancers, given their clandestine location—and it wouldn't matter who was wearing what kind of armor once the spells started to fly.

So Lydia found herself nearly on her hands and knees with her blade and shield strapped uselessly to her back, moving half the speed of a dying horker through dried twigs and bracken whilst trying desperately not to alert three potentially dangerous mages—and one arcane fire creature—to their presence. Sweat was beading on her forehead and temples, and catching loose strands of hair as they swept across her face so they tickled her nose and lips. This was worse torture than Olfand's infamous Gauntlet, when the senior guards formed a double line and taught new recruits how to 'take a hit'. She wanted desperately to raise a hand to her face, but her uncoordinated movements were noisy enough as it was. Every time her fur-wrapped shoulders snagged on a low-hanging branch or a brittle leaf crunched beneath her boot, she had to fight to swallow the curses that longed to stream from her tongue; and every time the muted clank of metal on metal sounded from her person and she froze mid-step until certain they hadn't been discovered, her eyes flew to Alriksson's supple form moving swift and silent as a damned Bosmer, and she had to bite her tongue once more.

"Leather my ass…" she muttered.

* * *

It was late afternoon before the towers finally crept into view.

Valtheim spanned the breadth of the White River as it ran eastward between the Throat of the World and the mountains of The Pale. Its two structures, one on the north bank built into the hillside and one on the south overlooking the White River Valley road, were connected by a precarious stone catwalk high above the swift-flowing water. Bjolmi had avoided taking the Valley road, for though it was the more straight-forward route, it was wide and open, and would have left them completely exposed to the Red Hand's archers long before they ever reached the southern tower. Unless of course they'd cut south up into the roots of the mountain towards Guldun Rock where crags and outcroppings offered more cover; but Irileth had informed him that Guldun had been claimed by giants, and Bjolmi knew that was a risk better left untaken.

He peered down at the towers from his vantage point in the cliffs above, belly flat against stone, watching the distant Red Hand move below him like ants across a tree stump. Six guards were in plain view: one atop each tower, two canvassing the bridge, one seated on a rock ledge above the north bank near the tower entrance, and one occasionally drifting into view around the far corner of the southern tower.

Surprising the bandits in the north tower from above and then fighting their way across the bridge still seemed like the wisest option; _if _he could take out their archers. He noted to himself that, despite Irileth's conviction that they would be instantly detected in these hills, they'd encountered a curious lack of resistance thus far. He wondered if Irileth had been misinformed—unlikely—or if something had provoked the bandits to amass within the fortress.

He slowly and quietly pushed himself away from the ledge and crept back to where Lydia was waiting with their gear. Strapping on his sword belt and quiver, he explained the current layout and outlined her instructions. She listened with all due gravity and he was pleased how eager she seemed for the fight; but when he bid her to take up her position, she shot him a vulpine smile and whispered, "As you wish, _my thane_." He quashed the urge to retort something smart. Now wasn't the time for childish quips, and he said nothing to her self-satisfied chuckle as she disappeared down the mountain.

A moment later, he heard the whistled pine thrush call that meant Lydia was in position. He loosened his sword in its scabbard and the dagger in his boot before drawing his bow and testing the direction of the wind with a handful of dust.

Reviewing the plan in his head, he plucked an arrow spryly from his back and moved back to the cliff edge while keeping low, attuning himself to the angle of the sun, the strength of the wind, and the thumping in his chest. He offered a brief plea to Kynareth, that his hand work in harmony with the forces of nature to hit his target; and one to Talos, for the strength and courage to move swiftly and decisively in the heat of battle, lest any harm come to Lydia as a result of his hesitation. Slowing his anxious heart with deep, steady breaths, he steeled his mind and prepared his body for the violence to come.

There is a moment prior to battle that every seasoned fighter knows, when his nerves subside and his anxiety becomes impatience for action. It's the moment the abstract gives way to the concrete; when his brain ceases to dwell on strategies and contingency plans and his heart stops pondering what-if's. It's the moment when his body takes control, and all the planning and training that has rooted itself directly into his muscle and bone commands each action with an absolute certainty that the mind would only second-guess.

Bjolmi knew this moment, and recognized its onset in the tension building in his calves and thighs, and the twitch in his fingers. Closing his eyes for a fleeting moment, he took one last, calming breath, and nocked his arrow. The contents of his mind drifted away, replaced only with the feel of the breeze on his face, the worn leather of his bow grip, and the brush of feathers across his fingertips. All thoughts of Lucia and Heljarchen, and their fate should he fail, were banished by the task at hand. There was only Valtheim, his bow, and his mission.

He stood and drew back the bowstring in a single, fluid motion. It took him only a heartbeat to zero in on the oblivious figure in the crow's nest below and adjust his aim to account for the wind and angle of the shot. Then the fingers of his right hand went slack and the bow recoiled. Another heartbeat and the figure in the crow's nest let out a garbled cry before slumping forward in his seat.

A swift and silent kill: it was a good start to a fight.

* * *

The dull _thud_ of an arrow burying itself in a man's chest was not easily forgotten. It was so…_definitive._

Lydia heard rather than saw Alriksson's arrow hit home, and her road-weary limbs surged with new-found zeal. She held her sword ready, and waited.

Her marching orders arrived a moment later as a second _thud_, this one more distant and accompanied by an agonizing scream, sounded from atop the southern tower, and she saw a flash of skin and fur tumble sideways into empty air. The body had yet to hit the ground before she was on the move, launching down the slope towards the north tower's lower entrance at a speed which belied the weight of her armor.

The Red Hand were alert now, aware of an enemy presence, but their attention was focused away from Lydia. As the gaze of the man before her was likewise clapped on the cliffs above, urgently searching for the location of their attacker, he didn't register the sound of charging boots until Lydia was nearly upon him. He turned just in time to meet her incoming shield with the lower portion of his face.

The bash sent him staggering, blood streaming from nose and mouth, gasping to reclaim the breath that had been forcibly expelled from his lungs. _All the better_, Lydia thought; it would only draw attention to her if he screamed, and she was completely exposed at the moment.

Without allowing the sod time to recover, she hauled her blade back and swung it in a vicious downward arc. It entered his flesh where neck met shoulder, slicing through his collarbone and deep into his left lung before the density of his shoulder blade offered enough resistance to halt its progress. The impact forced him to his knees. Lydia ignored the noises he was making and planted a foot squarely on his chest, leaning her weight back as she pushed his choking, mangled body off her sword. He collapsed in a crumpled heap, blood gurgling in his throat as essential organs failed him. Knowing she shouldn't linger lest she be spotted by the two remaining archers on the bridge, she still couldn't bring herself to leave the poor bastard in such a pitiful state. Quickly straddling a sprawled limb she swung downward once more, this time cleaving his head from the rest of him. It surprised her—though perhaps it shouldn't have—when the bloody, slack-jawed face tumbled comically down the slope, and she couldn't repress a morbid smirk.

Her loose hair was whipped into her face by a sudden, concentrated gust, accompanied by a breathy _zip_, and she knew it was time to move. Whirling around, she spotted her attacker on the far end of the narrow bridge and raised her shield to ward off his next shot. But before the fur-wrapped bandit could draw string again, there was a flash of copper hair on the cliffs above and his shoulder jerked violently back, tipping him over the side of the bridge and into the river.

Sparing no time to admire the shot, Lydia ducked behind her shield and bolted for the tower door.

* * *

Bjolmi watched as his target fell backwards off the bridge and then lined up another. The wind gusted just as he released, causing the arrow to zip harmlessly over the bandit's shoulder, and he was forced to duck to avoid being shot himself. When there was a lull in the attacks, he popped up, drew his string, and released. More incoming arrows forced him to drop before he confirmed his kill, but the cry of pain assured him he'd at least done damage.

When he was next able, he stole a look below him to check Lydia's progress. She had made it to the tower entrance and was thus safe from the enemy archers, but her arrival had been met by an immense Redguard in banded iron, the massive axe he swung before him making it impossible for her to get close enough to strike. Bjolmi could hear a commotion inside the tower as well as additional forces armed and prepared to mount a defense, and he knew it was time to join the fray.

Gathering up his courage, he scrambled over the cliff edge boots first, the leather on his hip grating harshly against the stone face as he slid, and caught himself on a jutting ledge some distance below. Without giving the enemy archers time to aim he pushed off from the cliff behind him and leaped, arms thrown wide. He landed rather gracefully on what remained of the tower's flat, decrepit rooftop, but as he moved toward the stairs one boot caught on an uneven plank and he pitched forward, catching himself roughly on his palms. He nonetheless thanked Kynareth, knowing that had he misjudged the distance from his perch to the roof, scraped hands would have been the least of his injuries.

Jumping to his feet, he dodged a quick volley from the bridge before slinging his bow over his shoulder and dropping into the room below.

The tower was in chaos. The air was filled with a cacophony of voices, some shouting orders, others bellowing gruff curses. Bjolmi drew his blades and struck down an unwary bandit from behind with a powerful slash across his back. He felled a second as he navigated some rickety stairs, pleased to see the Red Hand were focused on reaching Lydia: it left their rear flank wide open. Now he just needed to hurry and take them out before they overwhelmed her.

* * *

The Redguard giant swung wide, just as Lydia anticipated, and as she ducked beneath the potentially killing blow she twisted her shield shoulder back sharply and thrust her sword upward, the blade entering the exposed flesh of his neck just below his ear. He dropped, but even as Lydia recovered her stance his place was instantly filled by a pale human woman, her face adorned with broad strokes of scarlet war paint. Wielding two vicious looking daggers, she jumped at Lydia, arms spinning like windmill blades, only to be knocked back by a round wall of wood and steel. The swatch of hide wrapped rather provocatively around her midsection offered little resistance to Lydia's impaling blade, and she joined her dark-skinned companion in a quickly expanding pool of blood.

There was no pause for Lydia as the woman collapsed atop her compatriot, for three more enemies were clambering through the door. She raised her shield protectively as they moved to circle her, leering behind red face paint and ill-kept beards. The tanned, mace-wielding man to her left—a Breton maybe?—faked a charge, stepping back at the last moment, and she braced instinctively. The other two made jeering cries.

"A little jumpy are we?" mocked the one on her right, ignoring the efficiency with which she'd dispatched his predecessors. He was stocky, his bare arms riddled with scars.

"She's just shy," chimed the third with a toothy grin. "I reckon she never 'ad three men at once before, and it's got her all a-quiver!"

The Breton struck for real, lashing out with his mace at Lydia's left. Swinging her shield she blocked it easily, but his stocky friend took the chance to jab while her torso was unprotected. Her blade swept his aside, and she had to duck back to avoid a slow but strong attack from the scrawny man in front of her.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Breton's mace begin a second arc and the grunt to her right indicated the stocky fellow was attacking as well. Whipping her shield in front of her she braced herself against it and lunged forward, crashing into the third bandit while mace and sword sliced through empty space behind her.

* * *

"I'll have your head!"

Bjolmi threw himself to the ground, narrowly avoiding an axe in the skull. The bandit wielding it had come out of nowhere, interrupting his mad dash to the ground floor, and he could see from the red hand print on his face and scarlet feathers woven into his hair that he was a person of importance; perhaps the leader of the Red Hand himself. He was dressed head to toe in solid steel plate, and regardless of his identity, Bjolmi was going to have a hell of a time making a killing blow with all that armor…

Back on his feet, he circled around the room, keeping his adversary at as much of a distance as the small room could afford. The bandit chief swung weakly, testing Bjolmi's reaction. When he dodged swiftly around it, he could see the cogs moving in the chief's mind, adjusting his strategy to suit his nimble opponent. Bjolmi attempted to do the same—to find some way to fell this…mountain—but found it difficult to think while keeping out of range of the chief's axe in such confined quarters.

Bjolmi took advantage of their spinning stand-off to take stock of the room and see if there was anything of use about. He noted a table in an alcove laden with bottles and jars, and the familiar arrangement of mortar, crucible and evaporating dish, among other things. It looked like the Red Hand had an alchemist in their midst, and from a quick glance at the ingredients scattered about (deathbell, canis root, and imp stool, to start) poisons seemed to be their specialty. Perhaps he could make use of that, for time was passing swiftly and he could hear Lydia battling below. He needed to get to her.

He broke the standoff by charging, sweeping his sword at the bandit chief's midsection without expecting to cause any damage. The chief failed to parry with his axe at the right angle and the sword struck, but accomplished little more than jarring Bjolmi's arm as it rebounded off the armor. It didn't matter, Bjolmi only needed to get behind him. Snatching one of the potions off the alchemy table, he popped the cork and splashed it down the length of his blade, wheeling around in time to duck as his enemy's axe flew once more at his head.

He raised his blade to parry the next swipe, and the next, eyes searching frantically for a weak joint or opening in the armor he could exploit. The chief struck again and again, and each time Bjolmi blocked he felt his arm growing more and more tired until he abandoned his dagger altogether, gripping his sword with both hands. The chief was relentless, each attack as powerful as the last, and even as Bjolmi struggled for his life he admired his enemy's endurance.

But for all of the chief's stamina, Bjolmi had yet to take a serious hit; and when he reared back in preparation for a downward swing forceful enough to break through Bjolmi's block, Bjolmi saw his chance.

The attack—thought extremely powerful—was obvious, and sluggishly executed. Bjolmi watched the axe descend and at the last moment flung himself to the side, the floor shaking beneath him as the curved blade struck and shattered a portion of the floor. He wasted no time, aiming his sword-tip at the vulnerable area on the underside of the chief's extended arm—conveniently bared by the angle of his swing—and pierced flesh. The bandit roared and wrenched his axe free, but Bjolmi was already crouched defensively a safe distance away.

"That all you got?" the chief sneered, lifting his arm to inspect the wound with a course laugh. With a hawking noise in his throat he spit on the floor between them and raised his chin challengingly before resuming his stance. "I'm gonna mount your head on my wall."

He charged at Bjolmi, swinging fiercely, the gash on his arm slowing him none at all. Bjolmi swung his sword and swatted the incoming axe-blade away before returning with a strike of his own, nicking the exposed underarm once more. Both hits had been far from fatal, but if he was lucky…

It turned out he was. As he leaped back from the angered chief's next strike the potion began to take effect, and the bandit's movements slowed dramatically. A string of curses flew from him as he struggled against the effects of the poison, and even as he fell victim to the drug-induced torpor he swore to decapitate Bjolmi and loot his corpse.

A scream pierced the air from below, and Bjolmi's heart leaped at the thought that it might have been Lydia's.

He stepped quickly behind the immobilized bandit chief, placed a hand on his forehead, and drew his blade sharply across the exposed throat before retrieving his dagger from the floor and racing towards the stairs.

* * *

"You were right," Lydia snarled as she pulled her blade free from the screaming Breton's chest. "I've never had three men at once before." She smashed her shield into the side of the man's face for good measure, and he crumpled. She whirled back towards the other two: the stocky one was clutching a sizable gash in his leg, and the other one—the skinny, toothy one—was still recovering from a brain-scrambling blow to the head. "But if this is what it's like," she continued, flashing a grin, "I find the experience remarkably underwhelming."

The stocky one growled and made a vulgar gesture. "You got a mouth on you, bitch. Why don't you come over here and put it to good use?"

Lydia let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "And what would you have me do with it? Kiss your scrapes and bruises to make them feel better? I'm not your mother, you stinking pile of skeever shit!"

His face went red and he rushed at her, his attack made sloppy by anger and his bleeding appendage. She deflected it easily and his momentum carried him stumbling past her.

"Why don't you give that weapon to someone who knows what to do with it?" she jeered. Caught up in the moment, she unwisely turned her back to the toothy one, and as she opened her mouth to spout another insult his blade struck her hard in the back plate. The steel protected her flesh, but she had been completely unprepared for the blow, and the force of it threw her forward, her head whipping back sharply; her breath knocked from her. She dropped both sword and shield as she fell, her hands working of their own accord, and caught herself roughly on the stone. By the time the lights left her eyes and she could breathe again, rough hands were on her shoulders, pinning her down.

She kicked out instinctively, and her boot connected with one of them. He cursed at her—she knew by his voice it was the stocky one—and kicked her hard in the side. Then a heavy weight settled between her shoulders and she felt hot breath in her ear.

"Blades be damned," came the gruff voice. "I'll show you what I can do with _this_ weapon."

A hand forced its way between her clenched thighs, and Lydia grinned through her revulsion as it tried to worm its way in the direction of her womanhood.

"Good luck," she spat, her words muffled by the dirt her face was pressed into. "Even the horniest bastard can't fuck through leather and steel."

"Don't worry love, we'll have you bare soon enough."

The hand persisted while others yanked at knots and buckles, but Lydia could feel little enough of those prying fingers through all her layers. Her faith in heavy armor was restored.

It crossed her mind that she should be terrified, but in truth all she felt was fury: not at these two creeps for their miserable attempt to molest her, and not even at Bjolmi for taking so gods-damned long to walk down a few flights of stairs. She was angry with herself for making such a stupid mistake and turning her back on an enemy without bashing his brains out first. She could hear Olfand's scolding voice, chiding her for her lack of focus and discipline. _Thank Talos he didn't see this mess,_ she thought. Then, _enough's enough!_

Mustering all her strength, Lydia bucked hard against the weight on her back, managing to lift her chest a few inches off the ground and unsettle the bandit atop her. He kept his seat, but she was able to slide her left arm into a better position, closer to the dagger in her belt.

"Oy, keep still!"

She tugged the small blade free and stabbed blindly over her back, wrenching her elbow painfully. She struck flesh; nothing deep, but certainly painful judging by the howl it elicited. The weight shifted and she twisted onto her side, knocking the man off and bringing her heel firmly into the face of his scrawny companion. She was on her feet in an instant clutching her twisted arm, free from restraint but separated from her weapons.

"You'll pay for that you bitch!" screamed the stocky one. His fellow's nose was spouting too much blood for him to offer a similar response.

"I'll be certain to do so with the coin I loot from your mangled corpse!" she shouted, temper unabated. She turned to the bodies of her earlier victims and hefted the dead Redguard's massive double-bladed axe. Pain shot through her left elbow and forearm making her gasp, but she didn't allow her grip to weaken. Turning to her attackers with flames in her eyes she brought it to bear and swung it in a waist-high arc. It connected with the stocky one where he sat, splitting his head from ear to ear like a ripe gourd, and spraying his companion with blood and gore. Lydia yanked the blade free and lifted it high before letting it fall straight into the second man. The weight of the blade and momentum of her swing carried the axe head through flesh and bone like it was butter, and when Lydia's fingers lost their strength and she let go of the handle it had nearly cleaved the man in two.

She stood gasping, her front splattered with blood, her left arm throbbing. Exhaustion threatened to take over but she forced her body to remain upright. She needed to find Alriksson. She couldn't hear anything from inside the tower and she feared he'd been injured or killed.

_How fitting that would be, _she thought. _I am finally housecarl and my thane dies in our very first fight! _

She shuffled unsteadily past the two axe-hewn bandits to where her sword and shield lay and bent to retrieve them. As her head bowed she heard the metallic whisper of a blade being drawn and whirled around. A red-faced man with matted, mud-encrusted hair stood in the tower doorway, a curved sword in hand. He opened his mouth and let out a piercing war cry as he launched himself at her.

Lydia grabbed desperately for her shield but when she tried to raise it her arm refused to hold and she knew she wouldn't get it up in time. The man was already upon her. She braced for the killing blow...

* * *

After dispatching a pair of swordsmen on his way down-obviously green to this profession, judging by their poor swordplay-Bjolmi burst into the lower chamber of the tower just as a filthy cretin with a scimitar bolted out the door with a mad cry. Running after, he saw Lydia crouched, injured and weaponless, struggling to raise her shield. He was too slow. What a fool he had been to bring her here!

He could feel his heart in his throat as he raised his bow; could feel his body going numb as he drew his arrow's fletching back to his cheek. _She was going to die because he wasn't fast enough. _It was someone else's fingers who released the string, and someone else's feet who ran after the arrow when it had taken flight.

He never should have come here; never should have taken this job. He was no warrior.

The bandit pitched forward from the arrow's impact.

A warrior would have made it to Lydia in time. A warrior would have had too much honor to sell his sword like a common mercenary. A warrior would have stood and fought as Helgen burned.

Glory and honor were foreign to him; the dragon's voice mocked him from in his dreams, and his title was a stone tied round his neck. _Thane of Whiterun…_thane of weaklings and cowards! His blood seethed.

Bow was cast aside and blade was drawn. A hand clenched filthy hair, a sword tip poked through a man's chest as it ran red.

He could see the charred faces of the dead; the women and children sprawled in the street, torn to shreds by the dragon's talons. All around him were soldiers, clad in Nordic blue and Imperial steel, and all were fighting. All spat in the face of the inevitable and when the beast claimed them they held weapons in their hands and shouted their defiance to the very last. And amidst it all, Bjolmi ran. As the true warriors fell like wheat to the scythe, he fled.

He would run no more! Glory and honor were forever out of reach, so undeserving was he of either. But atonement: _that_ he might one day achieve.

Sword was cast aside too, and clenched fists beat one after the other into a broken and bleeding face.

He was unworthy of the mantle which had been laid on his shoulders.

Bone fragments sliced knuckles, but the fists continued.

He was unworthy. He was no hero.

Blood splattered his face with each hit. Was he doing these things?

_Alriksson_…

His name sounded distantly, like he was hearing it through water. Was it the voice of the dragon? The black wyrm calling to him from his dreams?

_Do-vah-kiin!_

He raged. These were his hands, thick with the blood of all he'd abandoned to their deaths. He would atone. Unworthy as he may be, he would atone!

_Alriksson…_

I will find you, black beast, and I will die by your flames with a sword in my hand, as I should have three years ago!

_Bjolmi!_

* * *

"Bjolmi!" Lydia slapped him-hard-across the face, and at last he froze.

Blinking, the mad look left his eyes and he focused them on her.

"Lydia..." He looked down at his hands, and the mutilated victim before him. "I..."

"You fell into some kind of battle rage," she said warily. Thankful as she was for his timely arrival, whatever had triggered in him had been terrifying. It was like he'd been possessed.

He shook his head as if to clear it. "Are you okay?" he asked, eyes falling on the loosened plating and unfastened belts about her middle. His eyes narrowed, and fearing he might slip into the rage once more, she hastily pieced herself back together.

"I'm fine," she said with a nervous laugh. "Bastards were touchy, but I got them in the end. Is the tower clear?" Best to move on to a different topic.

He nodded. "I think I killed their chief."

"Excellent. I can't imagine there will be many more of them left. Shall we finish them off?" She plucked up her sword but her left arm still faltered when she tried to raise her shield.

"You're injured. Are you still able to fight?"

She rolled her eyes. "If I'm breathing, I'm still able to fight." She let the shield fall and picked up a fallen dagger instead.

After a moment's thought, Bjolmi grabbed her shield himself. "We may need this, actually."

* * *

"Down!" Bjolmi shouted, and Lydia obeyed.

They were on the bridge, moving slowly and carefully across in single file, Lydia standing at the fore protecting them from the enemy's arrows with her shield-which she held with both arms-and Bjolmi behind with his bow. At his command, Lydia ducked, and he launched an arrow of his own towards one of the remaining defenders in the southern tower. She was up again as soon as it was away, and they shuffled forward a few more steps.

"Down!" He nailed his target full in the face.

They managed to travel about a third of the bridge's length before the air was filled with a crackling sound, and veining blue tendrils flashed towards them.

"It's a bloody mage!" Lydia cried.

The tendrils leaped towards them again, this time covering the distance, and Bjolmi's body jolted and shook, racked with white-hot pain as it absorbed the conjured lightning. His muscles spasmed, and when he could will his eyes open he saw that Lydia was suffering the same. When the attack at last abated, she slumped forward onto her knees, shield arm slack.

Bjolmi lunged forward clumsily, practically falling on top of her as hauled her arm up and the shield with it just in time to deflect a volley of arrows.

"Lydia!" he shouted, but she didn't respond. He spared a hand to shake her gruffly, and she mumbled something as she regained consciousness.

"Bloody mages..."

"Lydia, can you stand?" He was yelling in her ear, but more arrows were burying their heads in her shield and he was getting desperate. "I need you to hold the shield so I can take out the mage! Lydia!"

She blinked quickly, and-thank the gods-came to.

"Sorry," she said softly. She was still a little detached but at least she was moving. She took control of the shield once more, and between the two of them they managed to get back on their feet. He pulled out an arrow and readied it. He needed to move quickly, before the mage recovered enough energy to renew his attack.

"Down!" Lydia dropped heavily, and Bjolmi loosed his arrow towards the robed figure across the bridge. It struck him in the leg.

"Damn it!"

A heavily armored bandit had joined the mage on the far end of the bridge, and two archers were still firing at them; one from above, and one from the tower doorway.

Lydia's strength was failing quickly, as she'd born the brunt of the lightning attack, and Bjolmi's mind raced over possible actions. They could try and retrace their steps; back up into the northern tower. But nothing was stopping the bandits from following. They couldn't get close enough for blades, but he couldn't shoot if Lydia was unable to guard them. Defeat was starting to seem pretty imminent.

He felt a stirring in his chest, and the oath he'd sworn while blood-drunk echoed in his ears. He knew in an instant what he had to do, and though he'd have preferred a good long while to moan about it he hadn't the time.

"Lydia, give me your shield!" She turned her head enough to frown at him, eyes somewhat glazed but still present.

"Just trust me." With some maneuvering, she pulled her arm free of the straps and he snaked his through in its place. "Turn around," was his next order, to which she managed a full scowl. "Just do it!"

Arrows thudded into the shield, and he saw over its round edge as the mage lifted his hands in preparation for a spell.

"Cover your ears!"

"You're mad!" she replied. "Where's your bow?"

He had dropped it already, and it had skittered over the edge of the stone and dropped into the water beneath.

"Arkay's ruddy ass, will you do as I say?" He spun her around with his free arm and yanked her close, wrapping an arm around her waist and twining his fingers tightly around her leather belt. "Cover your ears and don't bloody let go!"

Her eyes flew wide for a split second as she realized what was to come, and then instantly obeyed. Clamping a hand tightly over her right ear, she turned her head and buried the other against Bjolmi's armor, clutching at him with her left arm.

Bjolmi took a deep breath and focused on the sensation that was building in his lungs. He'd only done this once before, and yet it felt as natural as breathing or sleeping.

Summoning all his strength, he lowered his shield.

At the same moment, the archers released their bows, the mage's fingers lit up as he began to cast his spell, and Bjolmi's lips parted as he spoke three small words:

_Fus-ro-dah!_

Immense power ripped forth from Bjolmi's throat. The words could be felt more than heard, like the dragon's cry in his dream. When they'd left his mouth the took shape, not just sound but force; a blasting wind that tore across the bridge, lifting mage, mercenary and archers, and hurling them away like mere rag dolls. The words had pulled at Lydia as well, threatening to rip her from his arms and fling her to her death amidst the rocks below; but he held her with a grip stronger than a sabre cat's bite, and though her feet were lifted off the stone when he spoke, she was not lost in the gale.

When the air had settled, silence reigned. Bjolmi's breath came fast and ragged, Lydia's head bobbing against his chest with each exhale. She didn't move; nothing moved.

Was this what the dragon wanted? Why it spoke to him in the night? It struck Bjolmi suddenly that, whatever the wyrm's wish, Balgruuf's had now been fulfilled. He had spoken the dragon's tongue and unleashed the power of the Thu'um as Balgruuf had hoped; and for all Bjolmi's resistance, all it had taken was the simple promise of coin...

Bjolmi dropped the shield and took Lydia by the shoulders, holding her at a distance. She hadn't sustained any additional injuries, but she was badly shaken. After guiding her to a sitting position, he drew his sword and stepped over her. He couldn't take any chances.

The mage was dead; his head had been slammed against the stone wall of the tower with such force that his skull had smashed. The armored bandit he found among the rocks on the southern bank of the river, where some course of ricochets had left him alive but with three broken limbs. Bjolmi put him out of his misery.

The archers he found some distance away, one on the road and one halfway to Guldun Rock. Only one had lived, but he dispatched her quickly before returning to Lydia.

She had recovered somewhat by the time he returned, and with an arm slung over Bjolmi's shoulder she walked slowly back to the north tower where he used what ingredients were available and the Red Hand's alchemy equipment to tend to her swelling elbow and shaken mind.

He paused as he cleaned a gash in his own arm enjoy a ragged sigh of relief and a small smile. They had succeeded. They were bloodied and bruised, but they had survived.

His mind flooded with thoughts of Lucia, thoughts he'd managed to keep locked away during the battle, and as he tied a bandage with shaking hands he thought with intense longing of his cot and furs in Heljarchen. He glanced towards the dead chief's musty and moth-eaten bed, where Lydia lay sleeping, and his smile grew.

She _was _inexperienced, but he marveled at her determination. She had proven as stubborn in battle as she was in an argument, and she bore pain like Ysgramor's Companions.

His head swam as his own exhaustion took over, and abandoning his potions and salves, he pulled out a moldy bedroll he'd retrieved from the southern tower and laid across the doorway to Lydia's make-shift bedroom. She'd told him earlier that she held no qualms about sharing the bed, but Bjolmi couldn't overcome his upbringing to do so. His mother had insisted on modesty, and with no elder male influences to mar her values, they'd been instilled in him quite firmly.

Placing his dagger beneath the bundle that served as his pillow, his eyes turned idly in Lydia's direction once more. He couldn't fathom why she would so desperately want this kind of life, but decided he wouldn't be the one to keep her from it. After he'd spoken to Balgruuf and tied up this matter for good, perhaps he would ask her to return to Heljarchen with him. Building a farmstead wasn't quite as exciting as storming fortresses, but it was a fair lot more eventful than city life; and there was always the chance of a wolf or two to kill.

With that prospect and warm thoughts of home drifting through his mind, the last bits of tension eased from Bjolmi's body, and with a contented sigh, he closed his eyes and let sleep take him.


End file.
